Lord of London Town

“Fucking spoilt Harlow cunt!” a voice hissed, and two hands wrapped around my throat from behind, cutting off my breath again. His hold was harder this time. I’d pissed him off.

The sticky air kissed my naked behind, my dress still rolled up to my waist, baring me to their eyes. Black spots danced in my vision as the man pushed his fingers against my trachea. I thrashed harder and harder with as much strength as I could muster. But as his grip only grew harsher, I knew this was it. My chances of escape were waning along with my ability to breathe.

As I danced on the verge of consciousness, my arms were forced to either side of me, as if I were bound to a cross. Unyielding hands held me still, but the hands around my neck loosened enough for me to siphon a breath down my burning windpipe.

My eyes welled with tears. “Stop,” I rasped out, my throat feeling like it had been shredded by razors. “Please, stop …” I whispered. But I knew they wouldn’t. Then—

“I believe she fucking told you to stop.”

I froze. In that moment, the sound of the thick cockney accent was like the voice of God himself in the deserted alleyway.

“Fuck off, prick,” one of the men spat.

“No can do.”

I managed to move my head to the side, my skin scraping against the rough brick, only to see a familiar head of black hair and piercing blue eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses penetrating through my attackers.

“Arthur,” I managed to whisper, tears of relief filling my eyes. His gaze flitted to mine for only a second before it was back on the assailants. Arthur reached into his pocket and pulled out a knife.

The men behind me laughed. “Last chance to fuck off,” they said. Their accents were definitely not English or even Spanish. I had no idea where they were from or why they wanted me. “Or you won’t make it out of this alley either.”

My heart crumbled. They were going to kill me. I fought back nausea and prayed my legs would keep me upright even as my body shook profusely in terror.

Arthur pointed his knife in my direction. “Be good boys and cover up the lady you’ve stripped down, and I might consider not killing you.” He spoke with no emotion, his face giving nothing away. “Give her back her modesty, and I might just maim you instead.”

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” the leader of the group said. “Kill him,” he instructed his men.

My arms were released as the men holding me rushed at Arthur. I swayed as fear, true and stark, took me in its hold as the three men charged. Arthur didn’t move. Didn’t even change his stance. He simply waited for the first man to attack and, in a second, slashed his knife across his throat. The man dropped to the floor.

Before the others even had a chance to attack, Arthur stabbed one in the chest, right through his heart, and stabbed the other in his neck, right in his jugular. The men fell like swatted flies around him, the alley floor instantly flooding with red.

The man behind me took his hands off my neck. I sagged against the wall, trying to catch my brain up with all that was happening.

They were dead. Arthur had killed them.

I scrambled back further against the wall. I let my disbelieving eyes seek out Arthur. He hadn’t a hair out of place. No droplets of blood were evident on his white shirt. He wasn’t out of breath. He was completely unaffected by what he’d just done.

Arthur pointed his knife at the man who had lifted my dress. His head cocked to the side as he studied him like a panther would do his prey—stealthy, cold, controlled.

“Who sent you?” Arthur asked.

My attacker rocked on his feet from side to side, eyes darting around the alley, clearly looking for an escape. There was none. None, unless he managed to get through Arthur.

“No one,” he said.

Arthur came closer. “I asked you a simple question. You failed to give me an answer.” Arthur reached out and, like a python, grabbed the attacker by his throat. The man lashed out with his fists, but Arthur was too strong for him. “I don’t ask questions twice.” Looking the attacker dead in the eyes, Arthur pushed his blade, slowly, through the man’s shoulder. The man screamed in pain. Arthur seemed unbothered whether people heard the screams or not.

I was as still as statue, frozen in shock. I focused on breathing, my throbbing cheek and neck ignored as I watched the horror show before me. As I watched the boy I had obsessed over for years casually embrace the darkness I had been warned lived within him.

This was the Arthur Adley everyone had heard of. This was the boy that had everyone in London terrified.